Chapter 7

Thanks to the quiet commotion, even those inside the fortress realized that Gart had returned and came out to welcome him.

“Anir? You’re alive? I thought you’d died somewhere…”

Three Thousandth, who had grown noticeably gaunt over the past year, glared at Gart. His eyes burned with resentment—resentment that the master of the house was never around, always gallivanting elsewhere while leaving him to suffer.

“Three Thousandth? My goodness, I almost didn’t recognize you. Why do you look so old?”

Three Thousandth’s face twisted in fury. Hearing that from Gart, who still had taut, glowing skin without a single wrinkle—just as in years past—was especially stinging. In truth, Gart had lived twice as long as Three Thousandth, but the difference in divine power had kept their aging far from equal.

Watching Three Thousandth struggle to suppress his anger, Gart slowly turned his gaze toward the fortress wall. “What happened to the wall this time?”

“Nothing much. Seems like there was some fighting among frost giants in Heimdrix. A chunk of ice—probably a finger—flew over. One hit the wall, the other landed in the street.”

“Oh dear.”

“Fifteen people have joined the embrace of the gods…”

“Oh no…”

“The Prosperous Moss Tavern barely escaped, thankfully.”

It was the fortress’s only reputable tavern. Gart narrowed his eyes and smiled. “That’s good.”

After a brief exchange, the two moved on. Three Thousandth led Gart to the fortress’ basement. As they descended the stairs, Gart noticed clusters of ice crystals clinging to the walls like frost. The deeper they went, the colder it became. Chilling energy surged from deep below the basement.

“Didn’t I tell you to take good care of the house while I was gone?”

“You didn’t say that.”

“Really?”

Gart let it go easily, and Three Thousandth sighed in irritation.

The basement was entirely covered in white ice crystals, making it look like a prison carved from ice. Gart’s eyes turned toward the iron bars. Two white wolves bared their teeth and growled. Whenever they thrashed, the thick collars around their necks—engraved with ancient text—flashed. These were tools developed by the Allied Forces of Thul’mor, meant to suppress divine power. Clearly, they were no ordinary wolves. You could tell just by the state of the basement.

They were the size and shape of typical wolves, but their fur shimmered silver, and their eyes were a vivid, lake-like blue. They were northern spirits. Spirits of the north—whether rabbit, fox, wolf, or yak—shared the same characteristics: silver fur and blue eyes.

Lately, baseless rumors had spread across the continent claiming that eating a spirit’s heart—or even better, a god’s—granted immortality or amplified divine power. Though gods were supposedly included, the victims were overwhelmingly spirits. Unlike gods, spirits were pure beings made of divine power, but not as strong, making them easier targets. As a result, there had been a rising number of killings of peaceful spirits. The Allied Forces of Thul’mor issued a public statement condemning such “reversers” and warning they would be severely punished on sight.

“Three Thousandth.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“You decided to change careers while I was away?”

“You still never listen to others, I see.” With a flat rebuttal, Three Thousandth continued, “There have been a few thefts in the castle recently.”

Meat stores meant to last through winter were stolen. Several bottles of the finest wine vanished. Dried herbs disappeared without a trace. Someone had taken a whole bundle of rare cordyceps that only grew in the west. A wave of reports and complaints followed.

While incidents weren’t unheard of in such a mixed community, this many happening simultaneously was rare. The apothecary who’d lost the cordyceps swore—his eyes bloodshot—that he’d hired mercenaries to kill the thief. It was a costly investment, but it paid off. While they didn’t kill the thief, they got a clue.

“They say the long tail gets caught!”

Amazingly, the thief had a literal tail—a fluffy one that glowed faintly in the dark. Everyone in Olkiedpan knew what that meant. The thief was a northern spirit.

With Heimdrix involved, this was no longer a personal matter. That’s why Three Thousandth, entrusted with full authority over Olkiedpan and Foxhole Fortress in Gart’s absence, had taken action.

Judging by the food they stole, the thief had refined taste. Three Thousandth stocked several storerooms with delicacies that might appeal to such a spirit. There was no need to wait long. That very day, two spirits walked right into the trap—one with a golden carp from the south in its mouth, the other carrying a miraculous healing herb said to revive the dead.

“Should I laugh?”

“It wasn’t exactly a joke.”

That’s what he said, but Three Thousandth had let out a snort after catching the spirits. How ridiculous—spirits so worldly they knew exactly what was valuable.

“I wasn’t sure what to do with them…”

Three Thousandth stepped closer to the bars. One of the wolves rammed its body against them, baring its teeth. The ancient script on the bars glowed and repelled the beast. It rolled across the floor, then bared its teeth again and growled.

“They’re weak. Still young, I think.”

Northern spirits were stronger than any others on the continent. If these were fully grown, the collars would have shattered, and the cage would be in ruins. More likely, they would’ve been killed on the spot instead of captured.

“What should we do with them?”

Now that the master of Olkiedpan had returned, the decision was his. Gart, arms crossed, looked at the two proud spirits gnawing on the bars. His eyes flicked to the broken bowls and meat scraps crushed beneath their paws.

Spirits, like gods, didn’t need food to survive. Some rare cases ate out of habit—but those were considered “devolved” spirits, ones that had drifted too far from their origins. It was even questionable whether such beings could still be called spirits, since they couldn’t sustain their form on divine power alone.

The divine realm of Heimdrix still held the same ancient power as it had thousands of years ago. Gods there were as common as pebbles. Spirits born of Heimdrix, like those gods, were perfect beings. And perfection meant lacking nothing. Having no lack, they had no need. Things like hunger were trivial matters for lesser creatures.

Three Thousandth knew this. But seeing these spirits carrying golden carp, reindeer meat, cordyceps more expensive than gold, and rare medicinal herbs… well, it shook him. Especially since the meat had been placed there intentionally, just in case.

Of course, as if to prove their true nature, they hadn’t touched the meat. A week had passed since their capture, and they hadn’t even drunk water. Yet they were still thrashing and full of energy, like freshly caught fish.

It didn’t seem like a crime committed out of need—perhaps it was all a game to them. Maybe they simply enjoyed watching humans suffer. That would make some sense.

While watching the spirits, Gart suddenly grimaced. A sharp pain had struck. He braced against the frozen stone wall. Veins bulged on his neck as divine energy and murderous intent flared violently from him. The spirits recoiled and leapt back into the shadows, eyes gleaming with alarm.

Gart took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. With that one breath, the surge of divine power and killing intent stilled. His breath hung white in the air. He bared his teeth in a fierce grin.

“There’s no rush. Let’s put this matter on hold for now.”

Three Thousandth changed his tune now that Gart had only just returned to the fortress.

“It seems the weariness of travel has caught up to you. You should get some rest today.”

His voice, calm and composed, echoed like a distant ringing in Gart’s ears. With a dark smile, Gart turned and walked away, each step heavy.

***

Tweeeet! A whistle pierced the dawn air.

Patrolling near the river, the early morning scouts rushed in with weapons drawn. The one who had blown the wooden whistle was a young warrior accompanying his father. Thanks to his sharp eyes, he’d spotted something even in the dim pre-dawn light.

The warriors turned in the direction the boy pointed, and their expressions hardened. Footprints stretched across the river—undisturbed despite the falling snow. Small tracks, like those of a child or a woman. Not monstrous, but what made them frightening was their origin: from across the river, in the divine realm of Heimdrix.

Now, with bodies from the Great Catastrophe 135 years ago still being discovered across Olkiedpan, those footprints meant far more than they appeared.

A messenger pigeon soared into the sky, carrying a red-stamped letter of warning.

The most powerful, beautiful, noble, and great ruler of Heimdrix once said—

“Below me are nothing but pitiful worms who would die at a flick of my finger. Weaklings, all of them, incapable of surviving unless they latch onto something else. Their only notable trait is their horrific reproductive drive.”

To Mariax, each word was a sacred revelation—a law that must be obeyed. Through strict adherence and arduous training, she had come to understand their true meaning.

“So do not associate with such worthless and filthy vermin.”

Mariax looked up at the towering fortress walls, standing tall like a frost giant. In the words of the Great Absolute, this place could be described as nothing more than a den of vermin. It was, in fact, the land where humans lived.